


i wanna taste you (but your lips are venomous poison)

by braille_upon_my_skin



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: AU, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Exercising of Creative License, M/M, fantastical elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-26 20:19:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16688281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braille_upon_my_skin/pseuds/braille_upon_my_skin
Summary: Warlocks are supposed to be impervious to the calls of these creatures.





	i wanna taste you (but your lips are venomous poison)

**Author's Note:**

> I've been asleep inside, and finally shaken awake- creatively speaking. 
> 
> I had this idea rattling around in my head for a while, but ultimately resolved not to do anything with it, until the ever-so-lovely mod of the [AskCarlyle blog](https://askcarlyle.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr gave me the nudge I needed to put my fingers to the keyboard. 
> 
> The intention was to post this for Halloween. My notorious procrastination said otherwise. And, so... here we are.
> 
> The title is a lyric from Alice Cooper's "Poison", which was a major source of inspiration for this story.

 

\- -

 

Warlocks are supposed to be impervious to the calls of these creatures.

Hence, Phillip tells himself that curiosity- of the morbid variety- is what lures him to the brightly colored tents, that night.

The lights illuminating the dockside circus create a hazy, lurid atmosphere that thickens the air around Phillip, blurs the harsh edges of the world and mutes the sounds of the procession trickling into the largest tent.

Phillip feels the pulses of anticipation, sharp and intense, coming off of every member of the crowd. They beat at him, and he gives the ring on his second finger a half-twist, conjuring an invisible rampart that spreads over him from head to foot. Solid, crackling, nipping at his exposed skin.

He once likened the sensation to being encased in ice, and the response from his father ensured that he would never make that mistake again.

_If it feels that way, then you're doing something_ **_wrong_** _. It's a_ **_simple_ ** _spell, Phillip. Most warlocks,_ **_especially_ ** _Carlyles--_

Phillip does not take a seat among the stands, choosing to slip into the shadows beyond them. It's safer, there, where he can observe the creature while evading its line of sight.

_And_ , sidestep the risk of being spotted and identified by a member of the crowd.

Before the creature even enters the ring, Phillip senses it. The raw _power_ that emanates from it, undulates against the barrier Phillip has erected, scrapes and grazes it with enough force to generate grinding friction that has Phillip crinkling his brow, clenching his jaw, and willing himself to maintain control.

His father _always_ castigates him for not having enough control.

Then, Phillip _smells_ the creature. A potent, unnaturally alluring scent of brine that besieges his nose. It's one of the distinct hallmarks recorded in the ancient, yellowed tomes Phillip spent hours upon hours with his nose buried in, painstakingly committing the handwritten passages and meticulously detailed illustrations to memory.

The second hallmark portents the arrival of the creature as unmistakably as the escalation of the conflicting force chipping away like an icepick, heavy swings hitting their mark every time:

A voice, sonorous and resonant, effortlessly filling the capacious three-ringed arena from floor to high, tapering ceiling.

Phillip is prepared to bolster himself against the insidious effects that take hold of ill-fated listeners who fall victim to the siren's song. He is the end product of a long and prestigious lineage. A pure-bred pedigree.

The Carlyle coven has presided over Manhattan for centuries, their name, alone, enough to drive off any- entity _or_ mortal- who dare encroach upon their dominion.

Magic, _the Carlyle magic_ , flows through Phillip's veins and tingles in his fingertips; charged pins and needles, icicles sharpened to deadly points, pricking the soft flesh under his nails.

He was _born_ with the means to deflect, and, if necessary, arm himself _against_ any being's hexes and enchantments.

His father obstinately insists so.

_Carlyles are superior. We're above bewitchment by any second-class hireling, brute, or beast._

But, the circus's ringmaster, the creature, the _siren_ , has manifested in the corporeal as a _man_.

The most alarmingly _striking_ man that Phillip has ever set eyes upon.

The creature- that's the proper term. Creature. _Creature_ \- poses as the focal point of a troupe comprised of humans most likely unaware of the true nature of their employer. It wears the guise of a tall man clad in blinding crimson, glowing gold, and sable glossy as a raven's feathers.

And, it captures Phillip's attention with a mere, and yet somehow _earth-moving_ , rhythmic tap of its cane against the sawdust-lined floor.

It proceeds to lead a routine showcasing complex, polished choreography, and dazzling feats that defy common comprehension, earning gasps, cheers, and enthusiastic applause from the crowd.

Even Phillip, who has borne witness to many a spell gone wrong, or horrifically _right_ , and heard tell of witch-hunts and atrocities that beggar belief, finds himself reluctantly, shamefully, _treacherously_ impressed.

The creature's proudly soaring vocals have every member of the audience leaning far forward to watch it; rapt, unblinking, glassy-eyed, and grinning ear to ear like drunkards four flagons in.

 

_It's fire, it's freedom_

_It's flooding open_

_It's a preacher in the pulpit,_

_And you'll find devotion_

 

"Find devotion". Phillip snorts, a mixture of scorn and genuine amusement at the creature's braggadocio. It's shameless, almost _perverse,_ how the creature prides itself on its ability to entice its unsuspecting victims. Lure them into its territory, deceive and inveigle them with spectacles beyond their imagination moments before it ultimately ushers them to a cruel demise beneath the sea.

As the performance continues, Phillip's stomach knots with tension. He waits, apprehension building steadily inside of him, for the moment the creature will lead its audience out of the tents like the fabled Pied Piper. Magic begins to spark at fingertips that Phillip presses into the heels of his hands, his muscles tightening as he contemplates intervention.

It would be against his father's wishes, a reckless action practically begging for horrible repercussion. But, he can't simply stand here and--

Without warning, the friction against his shield _ceases_ , and hairline fractures that Phillip wasn't aware of splinter, chinks multiplying, extending the full length and breadth, and- _Fool. Why weren't you on your guard? Have you no control at all? Brainless._ ** _Disgraceful_** _._

Phillip emits a soundless gasp as the barrier _shatters completely_ , permitting the siren's song to break the surface, sink in and in, and breach his defenses. Notes, chords, and melodies surround Phillip, flood his ears and submerge him, his head _just_ remaining above water.

The creature meets Phillip's eyes without breaking stride. It can- _of course_ \- sense another magic wielder among them, concealed in the shadows, and Phillip should have _known_. Known that his attempt to conceal himself was futile, because sirens can scent their prey. Even over miles of open sea.

Dark eyes glimmer with fiendish delight as Phillip swallows, and a knowing, _victorious_ smirk tugs at the creature's lips, spreads across its face bathed in dancing shadows and firelight.

Illicit heat twists Phillip's stomach, wrings it and plants roots in the pit of it, even though Phillip doesn't want this.

_Shouldn't_ want this.

A changing of the guard commences. The creature slips away from its post with a nod to a curvy woman sporting a well-groomed beard. It's possible that she, too, is a siren. They're noted to assemble in groups of three, and her voice also swells and crescendoes with seeming effortlessness, echoing off the rafters.

It doesn't, however, have the same effect on Phillip that the ringmaster's does.

The _creature_ masquerading as a sadistic parody of a devastatingly handsome _man_.

And, standing before Phillip before he can think of any incantation that would ward it off.

_But, maybe_ , Phillip's traitorous brain and body consider, plunging a knife into the back of his good sense, _I don't_ want _to ward it off_.

The heat in Phillip's veins begins to rise to a simmer as it eyes him, gold flickering in hazel irises.

"Mr. Carlyle, I presume?" Its speaking voice is low in timbre and surprisingly gravelly, carrying a trace of an accent Phillip can't quite place, yet mellifluous as every silvery, sliding note he- _it_ -  enraptures its audience with.

Enraptured _Phillip_ with. 

And, how does it _know_? How has it--

"You presume correctly," Phillip answers, his mouth dry. He finds he cannot move his legs, and cannot distinguish if the cause is the spell that has been cast, or the gelatinous consistency his limbs have taken on. The water logging his ears.

"And, what brings you to my show, tonight?" The siren almost purrs, intent, fixed stare panning to take in the whole of Phillip.

Phillip's heart leaps, pummels the back of his throat. "Perhaps," he drawls, outward composure preserved in spite of the maelstrom surging through his insides, "I wanted to see for myself how your kind operates."

The retort is met with a chuckle. "'Your kind'? There's no need to be quite so uncivil."

Shivers caress Phillip's spine from the base of his skull to his tailbone. _That voice_. It ripples and wreathes, pelagic and startlingly warm.

"P.T. Barnum," the creature says, offering a hand that is deceptively human, down to the knobs of calluses on long fingers, and lines intersecting on a broad palm. Its smile is disarmingly human, as well- laughter lines crinkling the corners of gleaming eyes- and the briny sent begins to fade, ebbing to reveal a heady mixture of cologne and sweat that feed the fire steadily burning in Phillip's stomach.

As Phillip hesitates, dubiously eyeing the proffered limb, Barnum remarks, "I assure you, Mr. Carlyle, that I'm not in the game of leading my audiences to watery graves. Wouldn't make much money off of them that way." Even the wink, warm, amused, and almost flirtatious, is _human_.

If Phillip didn't know better…

"Forgive me if I'm hesitant to buy that there is no nefarious purpose behind your business, Mr. Barnum."

"I suppose I can forgive you that much," Barnum says, amusement still twinkling in his eyes and quirking the corners of his mouth. With a low hum, he takes a step toward Phillip, gaze- intense, penetrating- continuing its appraisal. "You're the first warlock I've ever come face to face with, and I'm pleasantly surprised."

His voice is seductive as the pull of the ocean, each rumbling low tone twining and wrapping, enveloping Phillip's throat, his lungs, his chest, his stomach; silk bindings sliding over every organ. Soft. Warm. _Unnerving_. They reach down inside of Phillip and caress cold and hollow spaces, flooding them with inviting, pleasant, tantalizing heat that flares in short bursts where it encounters Phillip's magic reserves.

The extended hand turns, curling, knuckles facing Phillip. These knuckles stroke down the ridge of Phillip's cheekbone, along the curve of his jaw, and follow the line of a tendon in Phillip's neck.

Phillip's breath is crashing waves beating his water-logged ears.

"I never anticipated meeting one so _beautiful_ ," Barnum breathes.

The fear heightens, spikes higher and higher, then dissolves. Eyes locked on Barnum's, Phillip leans into his touch, stunned and not stunned at all by the warmth of the ringmaster's skin. If it is an imitation, it certainly feels authentic. Earthly. He can feel the pulsing of blood in blue veins under rough, tanned flesh.

A siren's skin is cold. Clammy. Pore-less and limpid. Their blood unoxidized blue, even when spilled, and veins green.

Phillip's hand comes up, almost of its own accord, fingers curling over Barnum's. "And, what do you intend to do with the first warlock you've met?" He whispers. His blood calls out, anguished, _aching_ , as much for the tall form before him as the white foam of the sea. The gleaming eyes. The grin- dangerous, predatory, hungry- pulling at pink lips. The barrage of appealing scents that flood Phillip's senses.

Barnum leans in, and his mouth descends on Phillip.

He feels like a man.

And, tastes like--

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The ending is left up for reader interpretation. 
> 
> Though, I'd like to think that Phillip and Barnum went on to overthrow the Carlyle regime and enact a benevolent rule over New York with their magical influence.


End file.
